


how we fade

by daggerons



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Missing Scene, RipFic, background malcolm and darkh, phil gets fucking murdered but it's not graphic or anything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-12
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-12-14 15:12:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11785791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daggerons/pseuds/daggerons
Summary: can you kill someone who never really existed?





	how we fade

**Author's Note:**

> i'm bitter we never got to see phil die like that's prime angst content right there

 The modifications finish with a small, but unmistakable _ping_. Eobard, who was waiting—a concept annoying to one who can move as fast as he can—as patiently as he could manage, lets out a sigh of relief. Even he, genius that he is, could have been out of his depth here. The brain is a tricky thing, what with its memories, and intricately linked feelings. Rewriting _that_ is no walk in the park. However, despite the challenge, Eobard is pretty pleased with himself.

Malcolm walks over, looking over Eobard’s shoulder. It’s unlikely that he understands any of the things displayed on the screen, but he still lets out a noise that signifies interest.

“So, what happens now?” Darhk asks from across the room where he’s sharpening some knives. Eobard thought he would have lost interest by now, but he seems as alert and ready for their next move than ever.

“Now,” Eobard says, pausing to pick up the device which will thoroughly pervert anything and everything Rip Hunter thought he stood for, “we just have to fix Captain Hunter.”

Malcolm tilts his head, clearly intrigued as to how the reprogramming process works. Eobard gives the small machine one last visual check, and then extends his hand, giving it to Malcolm. The other man looks confused, but takes it after a moment of hesitation.

“ _I’m_ doing this?” He asks incredulously. Maybe he hadn’t fully expected Eobard to act on the whole “equal partners” deal.

Eobard just nods, shooting him a look that says he better get on with it. Malcolm waits another second, and Eobard exasperatedly adds, “It’s not difficult, it just needs physical contact with his head.”

Appeased by the somewhat quick but nonetheless helpful explanation, Malcolm finally makes his way towards the room Hunter—or, Phil as he currently calls himself—is currently waiting in. They had told him that with the device they found in the bank vault, they wouldn’t need him anymore. It was only partly a lie.

As they enter, Phil looks tired, skittish, but doesn’t flinch when Malcolm approaches him. Eobard waits at the doorway. He’s partly there to see how Malcolm handles this, partly to make sure Hunter doesn’t try to escape.

Malcolm approaches slowly, while Phil looks cautiously. Phil’s not currently tied up, which might explain why he doesn’t look scared when Malcolm gets close to him.

“Are you gonna let me go, or what?” Phil asks nervously. He wraps both arms around himself self-consciously, and Eobard pities him. He remembers Captain Hunter as a skilled man, someone who could move heaven and earth, if he wished it, with the attitude to match it. Not as this weak coward.

“We just need to try one more thing, then we’ll take you back,” Malcolm says calmly. He hands the device to Phil, who takes it and turns it around in his hands. “Put it to your head,” he adds.

“Will it hurt?” Phil asks, and he sounds scared again. If this drags on any longer, Eobard might just force the device on him.

Malcolm shakes his head, although he doesn’t know the real answer. Eobard does. It _will_ hurt.

 

* * *

 

 

Phil touches the metal object lightly to his head. For a couple of seconds, nothing happens. He thinks this is a good sign, and feels relief. Maybe now he can—

Everything turns to white. He closes his eyes, but that doesn’t drown out the blinding, burning light. He might be screaming. He might be falling.

 

* * *

 

 

Phil Gasmer has a family. He had a dog as a kid. Those memories are clear as day. They don’t certainly _feel_ fabricated, a string of images placed in someone else’s mind to fool others.

He remembers once, when he was young, that he fell and hurt himself. He hopped home as best he could, his knee bleeding, and cried as his mom cleaned him up. He can still remember her warm touch, the gentle but firm hands keeping him in place, making sure he didn’t make things worse. He can remember afterwards, when she played cards with him so that he wouldn’t mind staying still. He can remember being loved and cared for.

He remembers his first love, a girl with dark hair and a beautiful smile. He can still see her face clearly in his mind. She looks at him with such love that he doesn’t think it’s possible he’ll ever truly deserve it. He can’t quite remember what happened to her; he just knows it ended.

He remembers so many things, little things: the way he likes his coffee, what color his bedsheets are, what he had for breakfast the first day of high school, his favorite pen, his least favorite shirt.

In a blinding flash of light, that certainty that makes those memories _his_ goes away. New memories that feel so familiar, that feel _right_ and yet _wrong_ take their place. He remembers being a Time Master. He remembers the Refuge, the Waverider, Gideon, the team—

And there something changes. He _can’t_ remember the team. Not as he did, before. He feels the familiarity of their faces, their names, for the briefest of seconds, only long enough to know that he loses it, and then it’s replaced by something else. Something cold.

He remembers them turning away from him. Listening to his pleas to save his family with contempt. They hurt him, and use him, and at the end of the day, it’s all for nothing, because his family still dies.

He feels the grief of losing Miranda and Jonas all over again, but this time, it’s like a distant throb. Like the ghost of a limb he never even knew he lost. It’s not white-hot, distracting, and blinding. He doesn’t have to try hard to ignore it. He would feel guilt at the relief that washes over him, but for some reason he doesn’t.

He doesn’t really feel anything. The fear Phil felt, the pain and anxiety, disappears. The sadness of Rip Hunter, the memories of love and loss, lose their edge. They become less sharp. Bearable.

It feels. . .liberating, in a way.

This—this reprogramming, the rush of familiar memories and their subsequent loss and replacement—doesn’t take longer than five minutes. The first thing he’s aware of when it’s done is the cold, hard ground. Someone’s boots are right next to his face.

Rip steadies his breathing, first. Then, he looks up. Eobard is staring at him with a curious expression, and something inside Rip says he should reassure him that everything worked. He doesn’t feel like being rebellious, not to this voice, and certainly not to the man who freed him from the anguish Rip carried with him daily.

“Mr. Thawne,” Rip says, devoid of any real feeling. It’s better that way.

Eobard extends a hand, and Rip takes it without hesitation.

“It’s good seeing you again, old friend,” Eobard says, a glean in his eye. The look of someone victorious. Rip can’t find it in himself to care.

“Likewise,” Rip says, already moving, already starting to make plans. They’ve got a mission to complete. Destiny to change. Reality to rewrite.

He walks behind Eobard, taking in his surroundings. Damien Darhk looks at him with contempt. Malcolm Merlyn doesn’t meet his eyes, at first, but eventually looks at him, too. There might be pity there. Rip doesn’t care. He remembers how easily it was to use them, weak and disoriented as he was as Phil, and how easily he can do it again.

But, for now, Eobard starts talking. Rip listens.

After all, they have a lot of work to do.


End file.
